


Morphine

by MyDearStalker



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Medical Kink, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:30:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3665823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyDearStalker/pseuds/MyDearStalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filled as a prompt for a lovely person who wanted evil condescending Hannibal, restraints, and a little medical kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morphine

On the ground, Will leaned his head against Hannibal’s trouser leg.

‘Please.’ He begged. ‘Not again.’

Expressionless, Hannibal slowly reached down a hand, and let it rest gently in Will’s curls. He was barely paying attention. Will didn’t dare look up into his face. He didn’t want to know what he’d find there.  

Above him, Hannibal reached over to his desk, took a vial and a sharp syringe.

Will fell further to the floor, grasped Hannibal’s ankles, grovelling, pleading for him to let him be, for just one night, let him have one sober night. Hannibal didn’t reply. He took the mixture up into the needle, tapping it to burst the bubbles. He grabbed Will by the hair and pulled his neck taught. Will gritted his teeth against the bite of the syringe, and before he could sob, he fell completely, down into warmth and contentment.

* * *

 

 

Hannibal was finished with Will. He had washed his hands of him. He remembered, fondly, many months ago, a time when he’d felt close to him. He treasured those memories, and the conversations they had. He missed them dearly. He visited them often. But that time had passed, as all things pass. Had died as all things must, eventually, die. People changed. Will had… changed. Hannibal merely wanted to salvage what was left of him, construct him into something once again useful. He was enjoying the process.

He tilted his head at the mess before him in the basement. Will hadn’t responded to the morphine in the way he had anticipated, but in the interest of fairness, he acknowledged the morphine he used wasn’t exactly the common hospital compound. He wondered if there was a link between Will’s extreme emotional sensitivity and his apparent vulnerability to drugs. It interested him.

Because, as it happened, Will _loved_ morphine.

It made him pliable. The first injection, many days ago, had nearly sent him into ecstasy, before leaving him in a warm puddle on Hannibal’s carpet. He had considered adjusting the dose, but why bother? This was fascinating.  His mind began to construct possibilities, wonder what else he could feed him, what he could manufacture to test the limits of what Will could bear. But there was time.

He had not let Will have a sober moment since, and he could tell he was tiring of it. Which was convenient, because so was Hannibal. It was amusing, seeing the empath sweating, eyes wide like an alien’s, mouth slack. No need to bind him, no need to persuade, or threaten, or coerce him into his bed, to bend him over his desk, to spread himself on his dinner table. He could just be moved, like a doll, emitting little mewls of pleasure, pathetic whimpers of protest. Amusing, for the first ten or so days. Dull, now. He had given Will his last taste. The drug had a rather short half-life, and he was burning through the ampules. He checked his watch. Will would be sober by the time evening fell.

He left him on the basement floor. He was confident, very confident, Will would find him when he needed him.

 

* * *

 

Will opened his eyes to a view of rough concrete. He lifted his head, and immediately put it back down again. It pounded, and his mouth was dry. He felt sick to his stomach.

It took him perhaps thirty minutes to sit up, not that he had anything by which to count, or was inclined to do so. An approximate half an hour in which the past ten days floated back to him like a bad night out. Jesus, did he have some regrets.

He casted his mind back. The last thing he remembered, clearly remembered, was drinking wine at Hannibal’s dinner table. Feeling faint. Then nothing. Then he remembered feeling incredible. Waking up to the view of Hannibal’s ceiling rose, the carpet beneath him feeling lush, warm, a comfort. Turning to play with the laces on Hannibal’s shoes that had materialised at the edge of his vision. Then….oh. Oh my. Oh _no_.

His face burned. What he remembered was…snippets of very, very clear images and acute, admittedly pleasurable sensations. He remembered being face down on Hannibal’s dinner table, his hand holding open his jaw. The cool feeling of high thread count linen and the hot, burning sensation as he was penetrated, crying out with pleasure. Being moved, feeble, biddable, between Hannibal’s legs, suckling idly, content. Will did not remember begging for it to stop, which was a mercy.

The things he had _said_.

He had been drugged, he knew that now, of course. Wasn’t mentally capable of assessing what that drug could be or how much of it had been given to him or how for how long, not yet. He knew that he was withdrawing, hard. He needed more of whatever that was, whatever Hannibal had given him, if he was going to hold it together long enough to …to…

To what? Run? Regain his dignity? Fight him?

Leave. He settled on ‘leave’. Had no plan of action. He needed whatever was in those syringes to be able to formulate one, to just get him passed this one little hurdle. Soothe his aching joints and head, settle his stomach. Stop the room spinning. Slowly, he crawled, on his hands and knees up the basement stairs. He didn’t have the energy to walk. He felt too ill to consider his humiliation. Drug first. The rest….the rest could come later.

* * *

 

 

Hannibal tapped his finger slightly impatiently on the arm of his chair. The clock showed six. His chest rose and fell in a silent sigh. Then, he heard the soft padding of hands and knees on the carpet, smelled Will’s sweat. He turned, an eyebrow slightly raised.

‘You’re awake.’

He watched Will crawl, slowly, very slowly toward him. His eyes tracked his sore movements across the carpet. He kept silent until the man stopped in front of his chair, admired the muscles in his back. Where had he put Will’s shirt? Ah, the washing machine. That was it.

Will raised his head. He spoke softly.

‘I am.’

Then, nothing. Hannibal looked at him curiously. He slowly realised Will wasn’t expecting to have to actually ask him for what he wanted. After all, he never had to before.

‘You come to me like a dog, expecting to be fed.’ Hannibal said quietly. He reached down to stroke his hair possessively. ‘Why don’t you show me how well trained you are?’

Will’s head jerked back in surprise. He looked offended, and a little angry. Hannibal wondered what he thought the last ten days had been, what their purpose was. It was possible he hadn’t considered it at all. Will was probably not feeling his best, he thought, smugly.

‘I am not your dog.’

Hannibal said nothing. He let the silence pass, stared Will down, finger still tapping a slow rhythm into his armrest. Finally, Will broke.

‘I feel unwell.’

‘I am not surprised. You are withdrawing. The symptoms are unpleasant. Aching joints, muscle spasms, nausea.’

Hannibal rose, walked to his desk. He unclipped his briefcase, let Will see where the morphine was kept. ‘An increased sensitivity to pain.’ He couldn’t help the relish sneaking into his voice.

He felt Will stand behind him, unsteadily. Walk gingerly over to the desk where he stood. He smelled of pain and sex. Hannibal snapped the case shut, and Will jumped, his eyes closing.

‘I think you’ve had enough.’

Will exhaled, a shuddering breath. ‘I’m in pain,’ he whined. His hands trembled. Hannibal showed him his back.

‘It will pass.’

‘Not soon enough.’ He grabbed the briefcase, dragged it over to Hannibal, threw it on the floor. His gaze angry, challenging. Hannibal looked cooly from the brief case to Will.

It was then that Will leapt on him, crossing the space between them with surprising swiftness. Hannibal stopped him with a firm hand to his throat. Will scrambled at it, clawed out at him. Hannibal squeezed until he was still.

‘There are things I will not tolerate from you, Will. Destroying my property is one. Violence is another.’

He threw Will to the ground roughly, making his head snap back against the floor. Will lay there for a moment, dazed. Hannibal felt a curious rush, a sharpening of his senses. He let it come. He welcomed it. He advanced on Will, twisted his arm behind his back, roughly moved him to the basement. He did struggle, but it was pathetic, it was nothing. He threw Will down the basement steps, because he could. Will screamed, because his whole body was raw, sensitive to the pain. Hannibal smiled a small smile.

‘Lie on the table. I won’t ask you twice.’

He wasn’t even panting. With sore effort, Will raised himself from the ground, wincing at what felt like broken bones and bruises, but wasn’t. Hannibal was patient. He had time. He waited the long minutes that it took Will to move himself onto the operating table, to lie down, making a show of obeying him.

He walked over to Will, whose face was a picture of resentment. He lay his wrist into a leather cuff. The table was old. Not an antique, but still from the crueller days of psychiatry, when one didn’t hesitate to restrain a patient that had become a nuisance. Hannibal would have flourished then. He had, having served at the tail end of that era. It had given him useful practice.

Will panicked. Hannibal saw it coming, as he had always seen it coming, the women on the table that fought the straps, the men who tried to break them. They never could. He doesn’t even look at Will, merely places a firm hand on his chest, forces him down. The strap tightens around his left wrist. He knows they really begin to feel it now, he could always see it in their eyes, the pupil dilation, the increased rate of breathing. Really, usually, he bound the feet first, because he detested the wild ungainly kicking.

He caught a predictable, angry, stray foot, and held it still, slammed it on to the table, bound it. Will lay back, grunting with panic. He didn’t soothe him, knew his words wouldn’t reach him, and was in no particular mood to comfort his toy. Once his entire left side was bound, he moved around the table, and pinned his right wrist with his own strong hand. He looked into Will’s eyes, and saw the familiar pleading there, the submission that all his patients experienced once helpless and restrained, the knowledge that he could subject them to any tortures he desired finally sinking in. His look was only to check that submission’s presence, confirm Will’s panic. Not to communicate.

He strapped Will’s wrist and foot in, binding him completely to the table. It was better, more entertaining, having him conscious.

‘I’ve missed you Will,’ he said lightly. Will gave a bitter laugh.

‘It shows.’

‘We haven’t had much conversation in the last ten days. Not any that you would remember.’

* * *

 

 

Will wondered what that meant. Was it possible there were things he hadn’t remembered? Things he’d done? Things he'd said?

It was the least of his concerns, but it weighed on his mind. He moved his hands in the straps, feeling the leather. The table pressed coolly against his back. The nausea had subsided, his joints only aching dully. What was left was an intense emptiness. A craving that repeated itself again and again in his mind. He watched Hannibal’s back, and even allowed himself the smallest bit of hope as he turned toward the table, hope that was dashed almost immediately when he returned with only a scalpel in his hand.

‘Why are you doing this?’

Hannibal didn’t reply. His remaining clothing was sliced off him efficiently. It was only then he saw the bruises on his knees, and the welts on his thighs. He gasped, tried to sit up, making the table clatter.

‘You weren’t always easy to handle, Will.’ Hannibal said, simply. Will was still panting in shock. He remembered none of that, didn’t remember doing anything, _anything_ that would warrant such mutilation.

‘Why?’ he moaned.

Hannibal ran a hand up the inside of Will’s thigh. ‘Because I could, and I wanted to, and you couldn’t stop me.’

He seemed changed in front of him. Will began to feel uneasy.

‘Because I have always had the terrible habit of playing with my food.’

Will’s heart rate jumped. It couldn’t end like this. Not after everything he’d been through.

 

* * *

 

He had no intention of consuming Will in that way, not yet. Nor were the welts and bruises on his lower body a form of control over the man. They were merely for his pleasure. But Hannibal liked to see the fear in Will's eyes.

Hannibal had every intention of making him beg. He looked so vulnerable on the table, white and shivering. He pushed his hair back.

‘You look as if you could use some relief.’

‘Please.’ He didn't even hesitate. His lips were trembling. ‘Please, Hannibal.’

‘You’re tedious when you’re drugged, Will. If I give you what you need, I would hope you’d have the courtesy to entertain me before it takes hold. I do so miss your company.’

He ran his hand down Will’s neck, let his eyes drop hungrily over his body.

‘This isn’t how you treat people you miss.’

Hannibal’s hand was suddenly around Will’s throat. He applied pressure, slowly, viciously, until his mouth moved and he was gasping, feet kicking against the restraints.

‘You’re mine to treat how I wish.’ He released him. Will forgot his straps, tried to sit up for air. The result was a curious bucking movement. Like a worm. He let his hand fall down to Will’s cock, warming it. ‘If you amuse me enough, I’ll give you a little shot, Will. I think I’d like to see you come. I think I’d like to hear you beg for it.’

He moved his hand, gently, down the length of Will, stroking, merely make him hard enough to toy with. Will closed his eyes, leaned his head back. He looked as if he was trying to breathe through his panic.

‘Good boy.’ Hannibal encouraged.

 

* * *

 

Will scraped his nails along the steel of the table when Hannibal’s hand finally touched his cock. He’d known it was coming. He’d known he wasn’t going to lie naked on a table, bound, and escape it. But it was still confronting. Usually, these sensations were experienced under the haze of an opiate fog.

His hand began to move, and Will’s breathing increased. He felt his cock respond, and fell into that deep, quiet place that had of late become his home. He heard Hannibal praise him, and tried to tense his body with annoyance, before submitting. He had no energy, and felt that he should conserve what was left.

He was soon rolling under Hannibal’s touch. He didn’t want to beg. He didn’t want to come. He wanted to curl up on the carpet in front of his fire again, and forget everything, these straps, his bemusing welts. But Hannibal’s hand was firm, and he wasn’t able to resist. He felt his pulse in his throat, a little spike of vertigo, as desire welled within him. He would come for him, and he would beg. He knew and hated that. With no warning, a finger pushed into him, accurate and clinical, a Doctor’s assessment, not the gentle touch of a lover. _That_ made him cry out. That made him moan, roughly, further eviscerating his sore throat. A hand covered his mouth.

‘Hush, Will. You’ll hurt yourself.’

It was true. His throat was suddenly red raw. He wondered what from. He had no memory of screaming.

Another finger pushed into him, and massaged slowly, Hannibal’s other hand clasped firmly around his mouth. It was like that -- torturous, slow -- for an eternity. The restraints prevented him from forcing himself further onto his hand, made him accepting. He bit his lip.

Suddenly, the touch was gone. He was empty. He opened his eyes, suddenly pulsing, hips lifting in the air of their own accord. Hannibal stood over him, looked into his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

That would do for now, for a start. He could see Will was almost finished, could be devastated with only a few more touches. And Hannibal didn’t want that. He had other plans. He drew a speculum from the tray and used it to widen him, further than his fingers could push. He wanted him to feel open. He wanted it to hurt. Predictably, Will gritted his teeth in pain. Good.

He retrieved the scalpel from the tray.

‘Hannibal, come on. This is all…its too much…’

Of course it was, it was designed to be.

‘Take deep breaths Will.’

‘I can’t, I just want to feel warm again, I just want to sleep..’ he sounded as if he were close to tears. Hannibal was pleased to see him so desperate. He drew a stool close to the table, sat, and stretched a piece of skin taut on Will’s upper forearm. Will never even noticed, until the blade sunk in.

 

* * *

 

Will jerked, trying desperately to escape, instincts overriding the knowledge of his bonds. When Hannibal cut into him, he felt the pain through his body, riding down his nerves. The scream eviscerted his throat, and left him hoarse.

‘What are you doing?’ he near-whispered, voice full of venom and defeat.

‘Signing my work.’ Delivered with a small, arrogant smile. He thought he was so clever. He thought he was so witty.

Hannibal took his time, the letter he carved ornate, penmanship exemplary. Will felt gauze dab away the excess blood. He whimpered on the table. He began to feel sick again. Finally, after long slow minutes of sharp pain, Hannibal drew away.

‘Would you prefer something more diverting?’

Will merely nodded. Hannibal returned the scalpel to the tray. He felt his hand return to his cock again, and every nerve in his body screamed for calm, for nothing, for the end of sensation. Hannibal’s hand was rapid, and Will felt his stretched muscle clench around the speculum involuntarily, tearing him further. It pinned him, made him reluctant to force himself into Hannibal’s hand, as much as he wanted to, despite the acute sensation. Finally, he lay back. He relaxed. Gave in.

‘That’s it, Will. Relax. Breathe. Let it rule you.’

He doesn’t want to, he felt as if he was torn between two awful options, feared his orgasm will only bring more pain. But Hannibal promised. Promised him relief, and he wanted it badly.

Suddenly, the familiar nothing. The absence of warmth. His cock strained to meet a hand that wasn't there. His eyes flew open.

 

* * *

 

‘What do you want, Will?’ he will train him to ask for things he wanted. His entitlement was unseemly. And after ten days of a pliant toy, he felt as if he was owed some interaction. Something in return for the gentle treatment he'd given him. He replaced his hand, held his cock firmly, still. He saw the moment Will broke. Saw his shoulders slack just a little, mouth droop open.

‘Please. Please just let me come. I need something. I need an end to this.’

‘Why do you need it?’

He seemed puzzled by the question.

‘Let me be clearer, Will. Do you believe your desire matters at all to me? Do you believe what you want his relevant here? Do you need to come because you’re desperate for relief, or because I want to see it? And I own you?’

His hand began to stroke slowly. So, so slowly.

‘Christ. Because you own me. Because I’m yours. Please. I’ll always be yours. Let me have this.’

It isn’t the truth, but Hannibal lets it pass. He never intends to let Will go, he will not survive him. Merely wants to plant the seed in his brain, that he his nothing. That he is owned. Once the words are said, they are that closer to becoming a reality.

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t care, he will say anything. He is desperate, feels as if he is slipping under Hannibal’s grip. When he begs, it is whorish, he knows he is after only his own pleasure. But Hannibal doesn’t seem to notice. The pace of his hand increased, and Will felt his orgasm happen _to_ him. He cried, loudly, as it rolled through his body, at the mercy of it. Small amounts of agony rippling out from already too tight muscles. Straggling parts of the morphine making his brain sing. When Hannibal removed his hand, he was a wet mess, covered in his own come and the blood from his shoulder.

He felt the restraints loosen.

‘I’m proud of you Will. The next time will be easier. When you can crawl, ‘ the word is a command, not a suggestion. ‘You may see me in the lounge. I will give you the dose you so desperately want.’

Will knows he won’t resist.

 


End file.
